Don't You (Forget About Me)
by ChasetheWindTouchtheSky
Summary: When they found out the Ghostriders were after Stiles, everyone promised not to forget him. They lied.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! Why does Teen Wolf always drag me back in?! I say I will not write another hella long fanfic, and then I saw the commercial for final season and went, "Fuck. Welp, time to write a huge fic again."**

 **BECAUSE we all know that Stiles' biggest fear is that people are going to move on from him, abandon him, and leave him all by himself. So sure, let's ERASE HIM FROM ALL REALITY. That'll be a great mind fuck for an emotionally damaged character.**

 **So, I wanted to write that terrifying fear of being forgotten and then what leads up to the resolution.**

 **Also, Kira is still here. Because fuck that.**

The End in the Beginning

 _By ChasetheWindTouchtheSky_

He remembered the day the earth changed.

Stiles somethings thinks about the way everything shifted and he no longer felt comfortable walking the roads he walked every day. He stepped in his Jeep and it didn't feel like his. He drove to school, but there was something about it that felt like he shouldn't be there.

He didn't realize it was because in this new world, he wasn't.

 **XXX**

"Alright kids, let's break it up." Sheriff Stilinski sighs when he walks into the Martin household, wishing he could pretend to not see the alcohol in cheap plastic cups and several high schoolers in the corner taking a drag of something that he is almost certain isn't a cigarette. "If you are out of here in five minutes I will not be taking you all to jail."

He scans the room, looking for someone, but unable to see them in the crowd. He feels that pull of parental affection as he is somewhat proud that he can't find this person. He hopes they're in bed, deciding to pass on the yearly Lydia Martin blowout.

When he catches sight of the person, he shakes his head. He knew they could never turn down an invitation from _the_ Lydia Martin.

"Scott!" Sheriff Stilinski calls out, wading through all the teenagers who were sprinting as fast as they could.

Scott McCall is in the corner of the room with his arm around his girlfriend Kira, surrounded by the rest of his packmates. The Sheriff lumbers up to him and crosses his arms. "Care to explain how this is the definition of "low-key birthday party?"

Scott at least has the decency to look a little foolish. "We genuinely thought it would be! I guess Lydia's been having these crazy parties for such a long time, they just assumed it would be the same this year. Everyone else brought all this alcohol, not us."

"Likely story."

"It's true," Lydia says with a casual flip of her hair. "I was actually looking forward to just hanging out, but then people started showing up. No thanks to _someone_."

Mason flushes and looks to the ground. "You invited all those people last time at the lake house!"

"I didn't invite them – that was Liam!"

"Oh right."

"Alright son I wish I had," the Sheriff sighs and Scott straightens a bit at that. "Please just pick everything up so I don't have to file a report about this too, on top of all the supernatural shenanigans you guys get yourself into. My weak heart can't take it."

"It wouldn't be so weak if you ate better," Scott mutters.

The Sheriff glares. "Do you want me to rethink the whole jail thing, McCall?"

"No sir."

"Good. Clean this up, call your mom so she knows that you're not in an alcoholic stupor, and then get some sleep."

"Sir, werewolves can't get drunk."

The Sheriff snorts. "Save it for a naïve parent. I've been dealing with teenagers for too long to even begin to believe it."

The Sheriff takes a moment and looks around. For some reason, he feels like something is missing. There's one other person he needs to speak with and make sure they're alright. But he's looking at Scott and the entire pack – they all seem to be there. Scott and Kira, Mason and Liam, Lydia and Malia. They're all there.

They're all there.

 **XXX**

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," Stiles is saying, running his hands through his hair. He tries to talk himself down from a panic, but he can't bring himself to stop.

His vision is growing dark and he's shaking from head to toe. He tries to catch his breath, but it's already ran away from him, too far for retrieval. Stiles drops to his knees, clutching his chest.

 _Smack._

Everything rushes back and he's left there blinking at someone who is nothing but a fuzzy form. But like the television slowly coming back into focus, he sees Lydia kneeling in front of him, her eyes filled with concern.

"…I think I like your old way of helping better." He says shakily, holding his cheek. "But thanks."

"Anytime."

Lydia grabs his wrist and looks at him, her eyes too big for someone who knows everything will be alright. "What's wrong?" She asks, but Stiles knows she already knows what's wrong.

"Liam," he gasps. "He had no idea who I am. Fucking Liam – I've walked that little bastard through so many full moons and he goes and forgets who I am."

"Stiles—"

"And it's not going to stop. Soon Kira will forget me, Malia, you, Scott, my D—" Stiles chokes, unable to hide his tears now. He doesn't care that he's kneeling in front of Lydia Martin and crying. IF there were ever a moment to do it, it's now. "My Dad." He whispers.

That's when the sobbing hits. Everything is too much. He bends over, burying his face in his fists. "Stiles," he hears Lydia's voice, but it seems distant. "Stiles, listen to me. We'll figure this out. We always figure this out. We won't forget you."

Stiles looks up, his eyes filled with tears.

"You will."

 **XXX**

Melissa McCall starts her shift like she does every day: with a cup of coffee.

She runs her hand down her face, reminding herself that if she didn't, Beacon Hills would probably fall apart. "Mom!" Scott calls, running over with a small bag that she knows is some breakfast.

Melissa casually glances behind her son as if she expects there to be another person. She tells herself that she expects Kira on their way to school, but remembers her son rides a bike and why would she expect someone else?

"Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I love you in this moment." She says, trying to shake off the feeling of something missing.

"Just in this moment?" Scott laughs.

"Other moments too, but it's much stronger here." She laughs, her gaze flickering past her son.

"Everything alright, Mom?" Scott asks, frowning. "You smell weird."

Melissa groans. "How many times do I have to say: stop using your freaky werewolf powers on me! I would like to maintain some semblance of normalcy in this life."

"It's not like I can help it!" Scott exclaims. "I'm just very attuned to you!"

"Nice try, my little delinquent." Melissa rolls her eyes. But Scott doesn't let up. He looks at her with those huge, brown eyes and she sighs. "I just – lately – feel like I'm missing someone. Which makes no sense." Scott's frown deepens. "What?"

"I've been feeling that same way too," he says absently. "I was wondering. How did we become friends with the Sheriff?"

Out of all the questions she was expecting Scott to ask, that wasn't it. "What?"

"I was thinking about this the other night at Lydia's party. We're so close with the Sheriff, but why? It doesn't make any sense."

Melissa laughs. "Oh honey, you and your memory. It's because—" And she stops. It's like something is there, but it isn't. She desperately tries to reach for it, but to no avail. "I – I don't know. His wife? He was here a lot when she died. That must be it."

But she knows that Scott doesn't believe her, just like she doesn't quite believe herself.

She looks behind him.

"Scott!" Someone calls and both of them look up and see a teen running their way. He flails a bit and slides until he stops right in front of him, his eyes darting and looking around, terrified. "Scott! Scott!" The kid keeps saying.

"Woah man," Scott says, putting his arms out protectively for the person. A little more instinctual than Melissa understands, but she convinces herself that it's because of the werewolf thing. "Are you alright?"

"Scott please," the teen pleads, his eyes filling with tears and his breath drawing short.

That's when Melissa goes into action – she knows the beginning of a panic attack when she sees one. "Honey, calm down." She says quietly, stepping from behind the nurse's station and putting her hands on his shoulder. "Count backwards from ten for me."

The teen looks manic, but obliges, his breathing slowly coming back to normal. She stares at his amber eyes and there's something warm and familiar about them. Something inside her is breaking and she doesn't know what, so she pushes back. "Are you okay?" She asks him, eyes his hands which are shaking.

But he doesn't respond. "Scott, you said that we would be further. I just spoke with Malia and—"

"I'm sorry, what?"

The teen stills.

It's a heartbreaking sight to see and Melissa doesn't know why.

He takes a step back and looks at Scott with an expression filled with hurt and betrayal. "Scott," he whimpers, his words breaking. "Scott, please."

Melissa looks at her son who is clearly upset, but she doesn't know why. "Man, I'm so sorry, can you remind me your name? Who are you?"

The teen's chin trembles and Melissa knows he's very close to tears. She wants to reach out to comfort him. "You promised." He says, the words quiet and haunting.

Scott seems beside himself. "Dude, I'm so sorry I forgot your name. But what do you need? I'll help."

The teen takes another step back, bringing his hands up to his face. He curls them into fists, tears streaming down his face. His gaze turns back to them.

"I'm scared."

Scott opens his mouth again, but the teen put his hands up to stop it. Bowing his head, he turns the other direction and moves toward the exit.

"Goodbye Scott."

 **XXX**

"I'm next." Stiles says, his words hollow.

Nobody really knows what to say to that. A part of Scott wants to deny it, but everyone would know it was a lie. "No," he snaps, shaking his head. "No, I won't allow it. I won't allow you to be forgotten."

They're all at Deaton's, surrounded by books. Nobody could pinpoint what was happening in Beacon Hills because no one could remember.

Stiles sits down in a chair, putting his hands in his laps and staring at his fingers. Scott frowns. He knows his best friend. He knows that look. Stiles is getting lost in his head and when he goes too deep, it's hard to yank him back out. "Stiles, do you hear me?" Scott repeats. "I won't let it happen."

Stiles doesn't answer.

Scott can feel his control slipping to the point where Liam and Malia are wincing. He tries to get it under control, but can't. He knows his eyes are flashing red and he can feel the pin pricks of his claws in his palm. "Why." He states. "Why Stiles? Why would they go after him?"

Deaton is in the corner of the room, his hand holding a place in a book. "They target people who have a drastic effect on reality. People they think cause the most change for a large group of people. It's says here, _Ghostriders often take months to plan because of the fragile nature of reality. There are webs throughout so many people, it's a delicate process to take a calculated risk._ It seems that they've deemed Stiles as someone to have the most effect from wiping him out of reality."

Stiles flinches, but still doesn't say anything. It scares Scott.

"But why? Why him specifically?"

"Because he always figures it out." Lydia says, her voice a bit dead. She clutching the collar of her shirt – an action Scott recognizes as a nervous twitch she's gained along with her Banshee powers when she's trying to control them.

"Perhaps," Deaton says. "but I think we need to understand that this goes deeper then stopping them. There are people all over the world who've been erased. We need to figure out what they all have in common."

"You want us to figure out what forgotten people have in common?" Malia deadpans, her eyes an electric blue. Unlike Scott who is flickering, she just maintains a certain level of half-shifted. Scott doesn't have the heart to try and get her to calm down when he can barely keep it together himself. "What kind of stupid plan is that?"

There's movement in the corner. One person has been quiet this entire time. When he shifts, metal scrapes on metal and his presence is demanded to be known.

"No."

The Sheriff has always been a man of few words, but Scott can't help but be a little afraid of his conviction. "Hell no!" He shouts, his gaze blazing in Deaton's direction. "If you think I'm going to forget my own son, you're wrong!"

That makes Stiles look up. His eyes are wet and his cheeks are red from clearly trying not to cry, but he looks at his father as if he's the only thing that matters in the world.

"This is not happening." The Sheriff states, no waver in his tone. No fear. Just determination. "My son is not going to be forgotten. _Ever._ "

Stiles laughs an empty laugh, his gaze going back to his fingers. "I'm sure that's what everyone said," he says. "They couldn't tell you now."

"Absolutely not." The Sheriff continues to be firm. "We're going to figure this out, son. Because a world where you don't exist? Quite frankly is a world I have no interest in."

 **XXX**

"Sir, I know you're the Sheriff, but you have to move your Jeep off the school property."

The Sheriff looks up from his desk, confused. "I'm sorry?" He asks.

Parrish sighs, handing a picture to him. "I don't know why you've kept it there, but it's been three weeks. It needs to be moved."

The Sheriff frowns. "Why is my wife's old Jeep on the school property?"

"Wait. You didn't know it was there?"

The Sheriff pauses. Now, he knows he's getting older and his memory isn't quite what it used to be, but this seems extreme. "…no." He admits, taking the picture from Parrish's hands. "How did it get there?"

Parrish shrugs. "I have no idea. All I know is that the faculty have been complaining that it's taking up room of people who actually attend the school. I didn't realize it was yours until I ran the plates. It's registered to you, your wife, and some name I can't pronounce for the life of me."

The Sheriff rips the paper from his hands and frowns. "That's… that's my wife's father's name. But not his last name."

"Excuse me?"

The Sheriff points at the name. "That is my father-in-law's name. That is my last name."

"I'm aware, sir."

"Just making myself clear," The Sheriff says with a smirk. "But why would he be listed here? And as a Stilinski?"

Parrish shrugs. "Maybe they were confused and thought it was your father?"

The Sheriff shakes his head. "We bought this Jeep after he died. We would've never registered it under his name."

Parrish looks uncomfortable. "What?" The Sheriff snaps.

"So… are you going to move it?"

 **XXX**

Stiles sits at his mother's grave.

"I can feel it, Mom." He whispers, his hands trembling. He hasn't been able to get them to stop for a while now and he gave up trying. "I feel… empty. Like there's no place in the world for me anymore. Maybe there never was…"

He says what's been on his mind, but is too afraid to put into words. But now?

Now he has bigger things to be afraid of.

"I was always afraid they'd move away and forget about me. That I'd be that weird kid again with no friends and no one to talk to. Just like I used to be. And after all that bullshit with Theo and the chimeras, I thought it'd be okay. Scott and I had our fight, we had our problems. And I thought it'd be fine. But it's all happening. They're all forgetting me. And Dad—"

Stiles chokes, wiping away a few tears.

"Dad, he keeps saying he'll never forget me. He says even with the supernatural bullshit, I will always be his son and he'll always remember."

Stiles reaches out, his fingers brushing against his mother's name.

"But what if he doesn't?"

 **XXX**

Lydia Martin sits straight up in her bed. Her throat is on fire as if she'd been screaming, but her mother isn't in her room, so she knows she didn't.

But there's a name. A name that she can't quite shake.

She slips on her shoes, grabbing her purse and keys.

 **XXX**

Stiles remembers the moment when the last person forgot about him.

He sits in his room, surrounded by pictures with holes. "N-No," he breathes.

Stiles watches as he fades away from each one. In between his mother and father, there's nothing more than a hole. Scott is no longer sitting with someone on the lacrosse bench. Derek is now just angrily glaring at nothing, instead of Stiles putting ears on him in a photo. In the center of the photo of the pack, he sits, flanked by Scott and Lydia.

Stiles holds the picture frame in his hands, his fingers trembling.

His picture slowly fades away. He watches his face disappear.

Until it's no more.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, tears rolling down his nose.

They promised they'd never forget him.

Stiles can hear the sound of hoof beats in the distance growing closer. His shaking grows until the picture frame slips out of his hands and smashes on the ground, the glass shattering.

The horses are close.

They stop.

They promised they'd never forget him.

 **XXX**

They lied.

 **XXX**

Scott rubs his eyes, groaning at the pounding on his door. He opens it to a disheveled Lydia Martin – something he'd never seen before in his life. "Lydia, it's like 3 in the morning. My mom's going to kill me. Is everything alright?"

But it's clear everything isn't alright. Her eyes are bloodshot and she's wearing slippers instead of shoes. She looks around, her keys shaking in her hands.

"What the hell is a Stiles?"

 **A/N:** And so it begins! I thought it'd be heartbreaking to have Stiles watch everyone forget him. I guess, if you guys like the premise, I'll probably put up some more!

Love you dearly and leave thoughts if you have a moment! 3


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh my! You are all so lovely and wonderful to have such a warm response! I wasn't expecting it at all, especially since I tend to drift in and out of the darkness. :) Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos and readings.**

 **A lot of people asked for this to be a multi-chapter fic – probably because I've abandoned potential multi-chapters before – but yes! This was always intended on being multi-chapter. It's my own warped idea of what might happen. I'm having REAL OR NOT REAL flashbacks… haha! Probably won't be that dead on this time.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter Two: There's a Place Where We Fade

There's a room in the house he doesn't go into.

The Sheriff tells himself that it's his wife's office, but can't remember what she would've possibly used it for. But he avoids that part of the house. A part of him is afraid. He's not sure why.

He doesn't open the door.

 **XXX**

Stiles doesn't remember the ride, but he remembers getting tossed into the room and it hurting. His shoulder slams against the concrete and it aches, but he doesn't shout or try and get up quickly. There's something ominous settling in his bones that finally has the capacity to calm him down in the worst ways.

It weighs like mercury in his bones.

When Stiles finally brings himself to his hands and knees, he looks around at the area he's been thrown into and finds himself to be a bit underwhelmed.

When something called a _Ghostrider_ drags you from reality and erases your existence, he had been expecting something a bit more… _more_. Instead, he hoists himself to his feet and gazes around at the chairs and the despondent people in them, feeling more like he's in a waiting room than on the brink of reality. People stare at the floor while a dim, florescent light flickers overhead, making them all look like ghosts.

He cautiously approaches someone, afraid to make noise in the quiet area, only the buzz of the lights able to be heard. Placing his hand gently on a woman's shoulder, he says, "Excuse me? Can you tell—"

Before he can get out another word, she opens her mouth and emits a horrifying scream that shatters the calm. No one reacts. Stiles takes his hand off her shoulders to cover his ears, unable to block out the horrifying sound.

She continues on in that fashion for a while until her voice cracks, breaking and crumbling into nothing. Stiles looks up from where he was wincing, flabbergasted that not a single person flinched.

"It's best not to spook anyone," a familiar voice says behind him. "We don't take change well down here. Usually that means someone's about to be forgotten forever."

Stiles turns around to the voice, his eyes widening when he locks eyes on the person who addressed him. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Peter Hale emerges from behind one of the pillars, his evil glint waning a bit in the florescent light. He puts his hands up. "Bet you thought you saw the last of me."

 **XXX**

Scott scratches the back of his neck as if it would somehow stop the itching in the back of his mind that he was forgetting something. He hated it. It felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. To keep himself from clawing himself on accident, he moves his hands under his legs and looks at everyone around him.

"Scott," his mother says exhaustedly. He feels a pang of guilt because he knows she just worked a double shift. "It's four in the morning."

"Yeah Scott," Lydia mutters sheepishly. "You didn't need to call everyone. It could've waited."

"No, it couldn't." Scott insists, but he doesn't really know _why_ he's insisting. "Lydia, we've been down this road too many times. I trust you. You're always right about this kind of stuff."

The Sheriff crosses his arms as he gazes at Scott, his eyes squinting a bit. "Alright then, son. What do you think is going on?"

Scott points to the handful of books that he and Lydia had been scouring since she came over. "We've been investigating the missing people from Beacon Hills as a side project for a couple months now. Except none of us can remember any of their names, which is odd because I know we've been looking into missing people."

He expects to see faces filled with exasperation and sleep, but instead finds himself face-to-face with an extremely alert pack. He points at the image in the bestiary. "These are called Ghostriders. They are responsible for the lives of many people, I think."

"No, you're right." Deaton says, frowning at the image. There's a horse and rider that is as terrifying as one of the Revelation apocalypse, a skull helmet drawn over its cold, dead eyes. "But the Ghostriders don't kill." Scott lifts an eyebrow. "No, they do something far worse. They erase people from the fabric of reality."

Someone makes a noise, but Deaton ignores them. "Back in the 1300s, there was a clan of hunters who looked to stop the Ghostriders. They wrote extensively about it and their document was lost after the last existing Ghostrider was able to erase the entire group. But their findings resurfaced later on. It was then discovered that while people forgot who they were and even though they no longer existed in this world, they couldn't erase things that they made. They could erase them from historical documentation, all art, but not the words they wrote. Their imprint on the world."

Mason shifts, his eyes wild and alit with excitement. "Intense," he mutters. "So what happened to the book?"

Deaton sighs.

"It was lost, wasn't it?"

"No, not lost. Just… claimed."

Scott frowns. "What does that mean?"

"It means that it was claimed as a necessary document for if they ever needed to protect their people. When she got her hands on it, she put it in a vault just in case. I don't think anyone expected what would've happened."

"Happened?" Lydia asks. "What happened to it? Who had it?"

Deaton grows somber. "It was in her house. It was owned by Talia Hale."

 **XXX**

"I'm very disappointed that if I was going to be stuck in this weird waiting room limbo with someone, that I'm stuck with you." Stiles deadpans, taking a seat in a chair as far away from Peter as possible, just to be an asshole.

Peter snorts, clearly amused. "And here I thought we could braid each other's hair and swap romantic stories."

"Please go die."

"Oh, that won't be a problem here," Peter says, his joking tone erasing a bit. "It's really only a matter of time."

Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but struggles to say anything sarcastic. Instead, he looks at the white walls and the comatose people around him. "What is this place?"

Peter shrugs. "It's not like it came with an instructional pamphlet."

"Fuck off."

He smirks. "From what I can tell, it's some sort of limbo. While they've erased us from our loved ones minds, I don't think they reached everyone. It takes a while, it seems."

Stiles frowns. "What takes a while?"

"For you to be forgotten."

Something chills his bones and Stiles shivers, trying to ignore that gnawing feeling in his gut that he's not going to like the answer to his next question. "What happens when you've been entirely forgotten?"

Peter doesn't look at him. "You'll find out."

He was right. He hated that answer. "You Hales and your inability to answer a fucking question like a normal person." He mutters under his breath, but it doesn't make him feel any better.

"Names hold weight." Peter says.

"And the nonsequitor award goes to…?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "I think that's when you disappear. Names hold weight. When people forget your name you disappear." He gestures at the room. "If you listen closely enough, people are muttering their name over and over again. Trying to urge people to remember who they are." Peter looks at Stiles grimly. "The supernatural is less fun than it seems, isn't it."

Stiles doesn't respond.

"Good thing everyone knows your first name Stiles. Oh wait!"

"Seriously, fuck off." Stiles mutters, turning his head.

Peter chuckles. "I'm actually glad you're here. It's making my impending doom much more entertaining."

"I'm sorry, what is your name again?"

"Very funny."

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a startling shriek. He whips his head in the direction of the noise. "Told you you'd find out." Peter says beside him.

Lifting himself out of the chair, Stiles makes his way toward the noise. He picks up the pace when he sees a woman writhing on the ground, her fingers clawing at the concrete. She hits them hard enough to bleed, blood seeping from underneath her fingernails. "Oh my god," Stiles breathes, sprinting over there.

He kneels down and grabs her head, lifting it up, but barely able to contain the trashing. "Somebody help!" Stiles shouts, but everyone just sits there.

One by one, as still as tombstones.

"Help!" Stiles shouts. "Don't just sit there, help me!"

The woman fights in his grasp, turning her clawing onto him. He winces when she breaks skin, but he doesn't loosen his hold. "Don't let me be lost," She chokes. Her lips are tinted with blood and her words thick with death. "Don't forget me."

"I won't," Stiles responds because he knows it's true. He will never forget this woman. "What's your name?" He asks. "Tell me your name and I'll remember. I'll remember your name!"

The woman's eyes widen and her thrashing calms. A tear leaks out of her eye.

I don't know."

Stiles tastes it when her skin melts and her bones turn to dust.

 **XXX**

Everyone takes the day off school. The Sheriff even calls in the office and puts Parrish in charge. There are pizza boxes littered around his house and he watches as both McCalls frown as they enter. He rolls his eyes. "Let's focus," he grumbles.

The entire pack comes into his house, maneuvering around it as if they've been there before. It makes sense that they have, especially with how close he is with Scott. But he tries to pinpoint a time they all were here and he finds it difficult. The Sheriff shakes it from his head.

"Damn, you've got a lot of milk!" Mason calls from the kitchen, already opening the fridge.

"Make yourself at home, I guess." The Sheriff chuckles. "Yeah, I always buy two gallons. I – I—" He frowns.

"What is it John?" Melissa asks.

"I don't know why." The Sheriff says softly. "It's just me."

Nobody responds.

"What room is that?"

Lydia isn't in the living room with everyone else. She's standing at the top of the stairs, her hand outstretched toward the end of the hall, her eyes glassy. "I'm sorry?" The Sheriff asks, but he knows exactly what room she's pointing to, even without walking up the stairs.

But everyone clambers up anyway and his thoughts are confirmed. She's pointing at the door at the end of the hall that he never opens. "That's… that's my wife's old office."

All the werewolves' heads pop up and he knows they all heard the skip of his heart. "Don't do that," he growls, but he knows there's really nothing to be done about it now. "I don't know, alright? I have no idea what that room is."

Scott looks at the Sheriff, his eyes wide. "Guys, I think we need to start entertaining the fact that… that we might have forgotten someone."

The Sheriff shakes his head. "No." He snaps. "No, we haven't forgotten anyone. Because if we forgot someone and there's a room at the end of my hall, that means I forgot my—"

The Sheriff chokes, unable to finish the sentence. It's too horrible to think about. "No. No, we didn't forget anyone. I'll prove it. We will go into that room and you will see my wife's stuff. You'll see my wife's stuff and we'll never speak of it again."

Despite his grandiose nature, the Sheriff feels none of the confidence he spouts. He looks at the doorway and is afraid. He's afraid of what lies behind that wood. For the first time ever, he wishes it _is_ remnants of his late wife. For once, that would be the better alternative.

He sighs at how fucked up his life it.

Lydia takes a step forward as if she did not hear any of the conversation. She walks forward, her arm outstretched. Everyone follows her, afraid to disrupt whatever trance she's in, her eyes unblinking.

When she reached the door, her fingers are trembling. She hesitates before the doorknob, but wraps her fingers around it. In a movement that feels like years and seconds all at once to the Sheriff, Lydia opens the door, swinging it open.

The Sheriff closes his eyes.

He doesn't want to see what's on the other side of the door.

"Oh my god," someone gasps behind him.

He takes a step forward, steeling himself and turning his gaze to the room. When he locks eyes on what's inside, his heart shatters.

The bed's unmade.

There's a poster of _Star Wars_ on the wall and the bed's unmade. There's a few jeans scattered among the floor and a backpack in the corner. Even a few of the books on the desk are open, as if whoever lived in this room had just taken a study break and was going to waltz back in at any second.

The Sheriff chokes.

In the center of the room is a picture. The glass shattered and there's glass spread out along the carpet. He gently walks over and picks it up, brushing the stray glass away and running his fingers down the center. Scott sits in the middle with his hand across an empty chair. Lydia's on the other side and she's leaning, but it looks like she's propped up in some way that makes no sense with the physics of the picture.

Like there once was someone there.

He gazes around this room, this room that is _lived in_ , and he feels his breath escaping him. The picture trembles in his hand until his hands let it go and he stumbles back, his shoulder blades hitting the wall.

"No," he whispers, his eyes darting around the room.

In every photo there's a hole. There's a space where someone had to be once. There's one of his wife grabbing someone that doesn't exist and one of him clapping the back of someone who's not there. There's a scrawl on the homework that looks like his, but not enough for him to delude himself that it is.

There are holes everywhere.

What he didn't realize was that there was one in himself.

 **XXX**

Stiles' finger burn where the woman once was.

"What is wrong with you?" He shouts, staring wildly at those around him who haven't even moved. "You did nothing! What is wrong with you?"

He doesn't need to look up to know that Peter is looming above him. "And you did something, but the outcome is the same. You see why we all weren't jumping out of our seats to aid."

"W-What is wrong with you people?" He gasps, his hands shaking so hard, he doesn't even try to stand. "You all let her die! You all let her disappear!"

"Stiles, that is us. This will happen to everyone at one point."

Stiles puts his head in his hands and tries to calm his breath. "No," he whispers. "No, no, no."

"Everyone will forget you. And then, you will forget yourself."

"Shut up!" Stiles shouts, leaping to his feet. "You were useless in life and you are useless in death! Are you just going to do nothing! You're just going to wait to die? You? Peter Hale? Who killed your own niece in order to survive?"

Peter's eyes flash and he growls.

"I am uninterested in waiting to disappear!" Stiles shouts. "I am uninterested in waiting to die!"

Peter snarls a bit. "Wait until you hear endless screaming. You'll wish you could disappear."

Stiles pushes past him, his anger growing. He goes to the corner of the room where no one else is around, putting his back against the wall and grabbing his head. "My name is Stiles Stilinski." He whispers to himself. "My name is Stiles Stilinski."

Someone starts screaming. Then another joins. The screams echo in the room long enough for it to feel like everything is suffocating. Stiles clamps his hands over his ears and shoves his face into his knees. "My name is Stiles Stilinski. My name is Stiles Stilinski."

People scream.

They're forgotten.

"My name is Stiles Stilinski."

With every second that passes, he's less sure than the last.

 **A/N: I was inspired by everyone's lovely words, I had to write more. It's a bit darker than I originally anticipated… which is great! Haha, I love writing darkness. I know this one isn't terribly long, but I really wanted to write the beginning of the limbo state. I'll write more words in the next update. I think I have some pretty cool ideas for this fic, so I'm excited to take you all on this story!**

 **Please leave a note if you have time! I would love to hear your thoughts. Much love!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! Thank you so much for your lovely comments and thoughts! They've really made my day and just really inspired me to move forward. I've been thinking a lot about the plot and what I want to do – I really want to make this similar to a season of Teen Wolf, but** ** _hopefully_** **make it make more sense. But one thing I really am excited about is the Peter and Stiles storyline since they're stuck in limbo together. (never steter, if anyone is concerned about that)**

 **Let's move forward!**

Chapter 3: The Writings on the Wall

The one thing that Stiles can't quite get used to is the screaming. Mainly because it happens intermittently, but all the time. Just when he starts to settle into a calm in the quiet, someone opens their mouth to shriek out and everything shatters. He shakes, trying to keep his anxiety from going completely off the handle, but to no avail. He sits, his back against a wall, wincing a bit once the screams died out.

Stiles isn't sure if he'll ever get used to it.

"I see you're no longer running up to help," Peter drawls, seated a few yards away but close enough to still be a complete dick. "Looks like someone caught on quick."

"Shut up, Peter." Stiles grumbles.

He scans the room, looks at all the dead, haunted eyes of those seated in the chairs around him. People are clawing at their faces, repeating their names over and over again. Stiles gets tired of hearing the cacophony of endless names, but it fills him with some sort of calm to know that people are still trying to remember.

Except at this point in time, he feels like this is a moment. This is a moment that he needs to decide what to do. Because quite frankly, laying down and waiting for his inevitable death seems like an alright solution at the moment. It's just so exhausting to be fighting all the time – to be the person who always has to hold it together.

Nonetheless…

Stiles thinks of his father. He thinks of Scott and Melissa, Lydia and Malia, Liam and Mason. The more he pictures their faces, the more he resolves himself to stand up. Walking over to a row of chairs, Stiles picks one up and throws it on the floor, the wood splintering as Peter flinches. "What the fuck are you doing?" He exclaims.

Stiles ignores him, taking the sharpest piece of wood and returning to the wall. "My name is," he says, carving the words into the wall.

Peter walks over to join him, his head tilting at the word. "That cannot be your name."

"Kindly shut up."

"Seriously, you made that up."

"Rudely shut up."

"Did your parents throw a keyboard at a wall and see which letters fell off?"

"Shut up!" Stiles shouts, whirling on him. "It's my name, okay? It doesn't make a lot of sense to you or to me, but it's my name. It was my mother's dad's name. So shut the fuck up."

Peter lifts an eyebrow. "Nice to see you still have your temper."

"Well, hopefully yours won't show up because normally when it does, you murder someone."

Peter smirks.

Sighing, Stiles runs his hands through his hair. "What we need is a plan. We need to figure out why the Ghostriders chose us and what we can do to stop it."

"We?" Peter asks, sounding surprised.

"Yes, we." Stiles says through gritted teeth. "As much as I hate it, if anyone is going to survive being forgotten, it's a psychotic murderous ex-alpha who refuses to just _die_."

Peter smiles. "That means a lot, coming from you Stiles."

Stiles grumbles.

"I would've thought it'd be the other way around." He mentions. If anyone can survive this, it'll be the best friend of a frustratingly honest true alpha."

Stiles thinks about that. "Sounds like we have a fifty-fifty shot." He puts his hand out. "Are you in?"

Peter gazes at his hand, his eyes narrowing. "I don't know how I feel genuinely joining your side."

"There are no sides. There's us being in existence and us being erased. Get over yourself."

Peter smirks, flipping his claws out before his takes Stiles' hand. Stiles winces when the claw pierce his skin, but he's more annoyed than in pain. "Really?" He drawls. "Is that necessary?"

"Just reminding you who has the upper hand."

"From where I'm sitting? It looks like we're both royally fucked."

When they let go, Stiles holds his hand to his chest, ignoring the blood that stains his shirt. He mutters something about not being able to do laundry, but focuses as best he can. "So we're here for a reason. We haven't turned into dust or melted or whatever, so that must mean that someone still remembers us."

Peter opens his mouth to argue – must be instinct at this point, Stiles thinks aimlessly – but then looks thoughtful. "I think you're right."

"Obviously I am."

"There must be someone who remembers you and I. Anyone you can think of that you have a particularly strong connection with?"

Stiles frowns. "Scott and my own father forgot who I was. I can't think of anyone."

Peter starts to pace, every once and a while his gaze flicking up to where Stiles wrote his name. "Well, maybe it's not a connection. Maybe it's proximity."

Stiles waves his hands in the air. "We're getting off topic. We need to figure out what everyone has in common here and how to get out."

Peter shrugs. "Fine. Don't have all the information."

Stiles makes a face. "Don't use my own curiosity against me."

He laughs.

"So," Stiles says, gazing at everyone. "Before we start, any regrets?"

"One."

That surprises Stiles. "You always struck me as a person who lived proud to be an asshole."

"Oh I am."

"Then what do you regret?"

Peter turns to Stiles, his eyes glinting in that mad way he got sometimes. "That I didn't rip Kate Argent's head clean off."

"…lovely."

 **XXX**

He turns over, bumping her arm. He winces, hoping not to wake his companion, but for some reason, he can't sleep. It's been like this for a while. There has been something nagging at the back of his mind, like something was terribly wrong.

He chose to ignore it.

After all these years, he didn't want to be drawn back into the fire.

So instead he rolls again, trying to reclaim some of the blankets from the woman at his side.

 _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

The man looks up, frowning that his phone lit up. When he sees the picture, the feeling he has in the pit of his stomach grows and he wonders how bad it would be if he just chose not to answer it. But his conscience gets the best of him and he pulls it out of his charger and answers.

"It's three in the morning, someone better be literally dying."

There's static and a pause on the other end, so the man winces. "I mean, someone's not dying, right?"

"Derek!" Scott McCall cries on the other end, his voice panicked like it does when he's feeling overwhelmed.

Derek looks at Braden at his side, slips into a pair of pajamas at the base of the bed and pads away. "Scott, is everything alright?" He whispers.

Derek sneaks outside, carefully sliding the patio door behind him. "I…I don't know…?" Scott says, his voice filled with worry and confusion.

"How do you not know?" Derek asks. "Usually it's pretty obvious if things aren't alright, seeing as everyone gets murdered."

"Derek, something's going on and it's different. We have the Argent bestiary, but Deaton said your mother had a book that might be the only thing that could help us."

Derek sucks in a breath. There are several topics Derek likes to avoid and they all seem to be a part of this conversation. "What is it, Scott?"

"Ghostriders. Deaton says your mother had a book on their history to keep safe. I'm so sorry to ask, but…" Scott sucks in a breath and Derek closes his eyes because he knows what's coming next. "…I need to know if it was burned in the fire."

Derek takes a moment. With the panic in Scott's voice and the 3am phone call, he knows it's not the time to hesitate. But he does. He has to. Whenever people bring it up, all he can see is flames and fire and death.

"Probably not." He answers after a few moments.

He can hear Scott's tiny noise of excitement on the other end that he tried to stifle.

"My mother kept all her research and books in the vault, just in case something like the fire did happen."

"The vault? You mean like under the school?"

"Yes."

"Perfect! We can get Malia to open it. Thanks so—"

"Absolutely not, Scott." Derek grumbles. He takes a breath. "I can be there in two days."

"What? Derek, no. I'm not going to ask you to come back."

"You're not asking, I'm telling you. Plus, you won't know the first place to look. I know where my mother put things like that."

"Derek—"

"End of discussion."

"You realize I'm the alpha here, right?"

Derek smiles softly. "Old habits, I suppose."

Scott chuckles weakly on the other end.

Derek thinks about waking Braden and packing, but something strikes him. "Wait, don't hang up," he says.

"What's up?"

"What does Stiles think of all this? I assume he's been Googling non stop since this happened?"

There's silence on the other end.

For a moment, Derek thinks he's lost them. "Scott? Hello?"

"Derek," the words are very careful. Afraid, even. "Who is Stiles?"

Derek has a flash of panic, but it subsides quickly. He laughs. "Very funny, Scott. Did Stiles tell you to do that? Just to mess with me?"

"Derek—"

"Tell him I'm actually wanting his opinion for once. He should be thrilled."

"Derek, I have no idea who you're talking about." Scott says quietly.

It has to be a joke. Except Derek can't hear any humor in Scott's voice and that feeling that has taken root in the pit of his stomach comes back. "Scott, I swear to God—"

"Ghostriders erase people from reality. We think we might be missing someone."

Derek doesn't hang up the phone. Instead he drops it and it shatters.

 **XXX**

"Derek's on his way," Scott says, frowning at his phone. "I think he hung up on me."

"Typical." Deaton mutters.

"He mentioned someone." Scott says and suddenly everyone stops what they're doing. "Someone I couldn't remember. Stiles."

Lydia's eyes light up. "That's the name! The name I can't get out of my head. It just makes me…" She clenches her fists. "Makes me want to scream."

"Lydia, no!" Scott shouts, putting his hands up. "You can't scream. You know what happens when you scream."

Lydia squeezes her eyes shut and weakly mutters, "I'm trying…"

"Should Derek be coming here?" Melissa asks, looking at the pack who have gathered around Deaton's examination table. "He's been away for a while, which is why I'd imagine he still remembers this person. Should he come back to Beacon Hills? Wouldn't it increase his rate of forgetting? We need to give whomever is forgotten more time."

"He needs to help us find that book," Scott says. "I agree with you, Mom, but I don't know what else to do." Melissa squeezes Scott's shoulder comfortingly and he hangs his head. "Anyone check up on the Sheriff recently.

Melissa grabs her purse in the corner of the room. "I was going to head over there before my shift. Make sure he isn't drinking like he did when his wife died."

Malia makes a face. "Why is he so upset? So he had a room he didn't know."

"Sweetie, it's not about the room." Melissa says patiently. "It's about who owns the room."

"But he can't even remember who owns the room."

"Exactly."

 **XXX**

"I had another daughter."

Stiles looks up from where he was examining a wall that was, unfortunately, very much a wall, to see Peter looking thoughtfully at his hands. Stiles stands up and surveys him, waiting for some sort of punchline. When it doesn't come, he carefully offers, "Really?"

"Yeah," Peter says, peeking around one of the walls. He sighs. "More rooms."

"This place fucking sucks."

"I've been in worse," Peter mutters. "Her name was Sophia. She was six when the fire happened."

Stiles doesn't say anything this time. As someone who speaks always, he knows it's important to remain quiet now.

"She was a human," Peter says with a laugh. "It's so crazy how fragile you guys are. I remember I thought she was a late blooming wolf. One day she cut her hand and I was waiting for it to heal. She was crying and crying and I was staring at her hand get redder and redder. I just… I panicked. I didn't know how to deal with humans. Humans are so breakable and fragile. You guys can die so easily.

"When the fire happened, Kate had locked all the humans in the basement in a different room. We had a couple rooms in the basement. The humans were in one, the wolves were in another." He says solemnly. "My only thought wasn't getting out, but it was getting to her. So she wouldn't be alone when she died."

"Why are you telling me this?" Stiles blurts out, unable to hold it in any longer.

Peter looks at him. "Every year on the 7th of April, I put sunflowers on her grave. That was her favorite and that's her birthday. She's buried out by the house. You had west a couple meters and you'll see a little cross."

"Okay—"

"I think you're wrong Stiles." Peter says. "I think you're wrong in your guess that I'm the one making it out. As much as McCall has been a pain in my ass over the years, I know he won't give up. Even if he's forgotten you. He'll remember he's forgotten someone. And when you make it out, I'd like you to put sunflowers on Sophia's grave April 7th from now on."

Peter looks grave, staring at Stiles straight in the eye.

"Everyone deserves to be remembered."

 **XXX**

Scott's leg is bouncing nervously as he waits in Deaton's office. He tries again and against to figure out who is lost, but it's like someone placed a white sheet against his mind. It's just… blank.

He groans, running his hands down his face.

"Patience, Scott." Deaton says from the corner where he's stitching up a dog. "Derek will get here soon."

Scott ignores him, wishing he didn't have to lead a pack at the moment. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he sees:

 **Mom: Got 2 Sheriff's**

 **Scott: How is he?**

 **Mom: Can you come? My shift starts soon.**

Scott sighs. "Deaton, I have to go. If Derek gets here—"

"I will call you before he even gets through the doorway."

Scott rolls his eyes at his boss's sass but is secretly thankful.

The entire bike ride to the Sheriff's is infuriating. Scott can't understand how he can know a person's name and not have him return. If names hold weight and he knows Stiles' name, why isn't he back? Why isn't he remembered?

"Stiles Stilinski." Scott says out loud, feeling a bit foolish. He looks around, knowing it's futile, but hoping a teenager will walk up just the same. "I remember Stiles Stilinski."

He's greeted to nothing but passing cars.

By the time Scott's reached the Sheriff's, he's tried every annunciation of the name possible, but no one turns up. His mind is still blocked. There still is a hole in his chest.

Scott growls, knocking on the Sheriff's door.

When he opens it, he's greeted to his mother and the stench of alcohol. Scott wrinkles his nose, the pungent smell filtering out of the windows. "It must be so much worse for you and your werewolf nose," Melissa sighs. "And I thought it was bad for me."

"Is he drunk?" Scott asks.

"A little. I basically replaced his bloodstream with coffee and sprayed him down with the hose from his kitchen sink." Melissa looks over her shoulder. "Needless to say, we're not invited to dinner anytime soon."

Scott smiles. "I love you, Mom."

Melissa grins, her eyes softening. "I love you too, Scott. Now see if you can sober him up further. I haven't seen him in a place like this since Claudia died. And that took years to get over."

Scott nods, because he remembers. He remembers intimate details about that time, but can't figure out _why_ he knows. His mother would never have told him. Someone else must have.

"Thanks sweets. If you need me, call the hospital. I'll bring by food on my dinner break."

"Thanks Mom."

When Melissa leaves, Scott feels an unexplainable anger hit him. Between the booze and the noise coming from the kitchen, for some reason, Scott's _angry_.

"Mr. Stilinski?" He calls, trying to keep his anger under control. "It's Scott."

When Scott reaches the kitchen, his anger reaches the boiling point. The Sheriff is at the cupboard, his hand reaching for another glass with a bottle of Jack in the other. He's muttering something to himself and his face is all red. With a confidence he doesn't understand, Scott walks over to the Sheriff, grabs the bottle of Jack and throws it on the floor. The bottle shatters, whiskey and glass flying everywhere.

The Sheriff looks at what Scott did, stunned, his anger not appearing until much later. "What the hell did you just do, Scott?" The Sheriff yells, his voice slurring a bit.

"Sit. Down." Scott says, red burning through his eyes as he pours every ounce of True Alpha into his voice. "Enough."

The Sheriff glares at him for a moment, his eyes hard and his mouth half-open as if he was about to chastise him. And then in a moment… he crumbles.

The Sheriff puts a hand over his face and his shoulders start to shake. Scott's eyes fade back to their normal color as he watches the man who practically was his father break before him. Gently putting a hand on his shoulder, Scott guides him to the living room and helps him onto the couch before returning to the kitchen for some water.

When he reaches the Sheriff, the quiet sobs have stopped, but the man is looking out the window. Scott can see the redness in his face and doubts it has anything to do with the alcohol.

"Mr. Stilinski?" Scott asks cautiously, offering him the glass of water.

The Sheriff takes it without looking at Scott, shutting his eyes so that a few more tears fall.

The two sit in an uncomfortable silence.

"I went into his room," the Sheriff says after a while. "It's so… lived in, you know? Like he's going to be back any second. And I look at all these photos and things and I try to remember, but there's nothing. Nothing but this empty space that I thought was there because of my wife. I thought that was the space that she held in my heart. But it wasn't."

Scott doesn't know what to say. Besides being a True Alpha, he still is only seventeen. There are things he doesn't understand, but wishes he did.

"I don't even know who this kid is and I know that I'm not strong enough to lose both of them, Scott." The Sheriff admits. "I lost my wife and I thought that would be the hardest thing I ever had to do. And now I have to lose my kid too? Without even know it?"

"I tried saying his name out loud." Scott admits sheepishly. "Stiles Stilinski. I tried. I thought… Deaton said that names hold weight. I thought it might..."

"Bring him back?" The Sheriff says with a huff. "I did the same thing. No go."

Scott laughs weakly.

"I have this feeling that it isn't his name, though." The Sheriff says distantly. "I don't know why. I think you two were close though."

Scott frowns. "What do you mean?"

"There are a lot of photos of you with a blank space in there. I think he was in them. I think you two were particularly close."

Scott sighs. "It makes sense. I've been feeling like something's missing for a while now. No one else really had this buzzing." The Sheriff nods, like he understands. Which Scott supposes if anyone would, it would be him. "But you can't do this, sir. You can't fall apart."

"Do you think that they know?" The Sheriff cuts him off.

"Know what?"

"Do you think that they know they're being forgotten? Or do they forget too?"

Scott stops. "I-I don't know. I hope it's the latter, to be honest."

"Me too," the Sheriff says. "I have a feeling that isn't the case though."

"Sheriff, stop it." Scott regains his firmness again. "You can't do this to yourself – you can't fall apart. We will figure it out. We have to."

The Sheriff looks at his hands. "I guess the silver lining is that if we don't, we'll all forget it anyway. Although, who know. The mind is great about storing things."

Scott slaps his hand on the Sheriff's wrist. "Oh my god, that's brilliant."

The Sheriff looks at Scott incredulously. "Have you lost it?"

"That's brilliant! The mind does store things!" Scott exclaims. "And do you know the best way of finding those thoughts?"

Scott flicks his wrist and his claws appear.

 **A/N: Sorry for the delay in updates! I got super busy with personal stuff. But moving forward! Please let me know what you think if you have a moment. Much love!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi guys! Thank you so much for all your kind thoughts. They really do make my day and make me want to work harder on this. Let's just get started then! Who's excited for the last season?!**

Chapter 3

 _Into the Void_

"That's just not how it works."

Scott clenches his fist because he's trying his best to maintain a sense of calm, but Deaton's vague ways are really starting to get to him. "Why not, though? If Stiles used to be a part of our memories, why wouldn't that work?"

"Scott, I understand your frustration, but if you could calm down. The cats are going crazy in the other room." Deaton says calmly.

Scott blinks and sure enough, he can hear the excited hissing of cats in the distance. He takes a breath, but continues to glare at Deaton as if that would somehow get him to stop speaking in riddles. "I don't understand why it wouldn't work. Those memories have to be somewhere, right?"

Deaton paces around the exanimation table until he reaches a cupboard and then rummages around. He grabs a few herbs and sets them on the counter, casually answering, "Scott, the Ghostriders are eliminating this person from existence. This is an entirely different situation than before. Your Alpha claws find what already exists inside your head. Unfortunately, you don't have a Stiles exist in your head. And I have no idea what mental repercussions would happen if you used them on Derek when he has memories and you don't. The brain is a tricky thing, Scott. It mustn't be trifled with." He grabs a few more. "I have another idea, though. And you're not going to like it."

"I usually don't like your ideas." Liam says from the corner, where he stood with his arms crossed and nibbling on a fingernail. Scott throws him a glare, but he merely shrugs. "Just saying. Usually we end up impaled or stabbed or shot or—"

"Liam," Scott growls. He stops, but doesn't look terribly perturbed about it.

"We're going to have to wait until Derek gets here though. And I think it'll be best to grab the Sheriff as well. Mainly because I have a feeling Liam's fears will come true and he'll shoot you all for excluding him."

Scott frowns. "What do you have in mind?"

Deaton places all the glass containers of herbs and powders on the examination table. They clink against the metal in an ominous way that makes Scott's hair stand on end. "Call Lydia. I think it's time we break out the bath tubs."

 **XXX**

"Goddammit!" Stiles exclaims, slamming his hand against one of the walls. He considers punching it, just so he could see the breakoff his skin and convince himself he's a real person.

The screaming is getting to him.

It grates on his insides, shredding the small amount of sanity he has left. He wants to cover his ears and hide for a bit; the only reason he wasn't is that Peter is standing right next to him as haughty as ever and fuck that guy.

Instead, he decides to put his back to the wall and slide down, resting his arms on his knees. Stiles stares, trying to see things beyond the rows of disintegrating people and empty chairs.

He can't.

"Do you ever wonder why they took you?" Stiles asks, mainly to get his mind off the countless walls and wailings of the room. He looks up at Peter, who's standing over him with his arms crossed, like he's some sort of disappointed father. The v-neck makes him lose all his credibility, but it's enough for Stiles to smile weakly.

Peter sighs. "I don't have to wonder. I know."

Stiles blinks. "Really? Why?"

"I've been going through some of our old records – all the books and files that didn't get lost in the fire." Peter says. "I stumbled across this book that Talia safeguarded – even from family. She also said it was a 'need-to-know' basis, so I used to think she was rubbing in her Alpha status for fun. But when I started reading it, I realized why."

"What's the book about?"

"The origins of the Ghostriders."

Stiles could punch him. He wants to just stand up and deck him in his stupid v-neck wearing, murdering psycho, werewolf face. "You read a book about the origins of the Ghostriders and you're just _now_ mentioning it? What the hell!"

Peter rolls his eyes and joins Stiles on the floor. It feels very comfortable, which is something Stiles is naturally uncomfortable with. He doesn't like the fact his only ally is someone he once lit on fire.

"Calm down. I didn't read all of it." Peter sighed. "They didn't let me get that far."

Stiles leans closer. "What happened?"

"I think it happened quickly because, quite frankly, not a lot of people know I'm still alive." Peter shrugs. "People either think I died in the fire or am still comatose."

"So the only people who know you're alive are the people who you tried to murder."

"Pretty much." Peter says, clearly not affected by Stiles' dripping sarcasm. "I don't dwell on it, neither should you."

"You tried to kill me!"

"You lit me on fire."

"You tried to kill me _again!"_

"Ah well, this isn't a contest." Peter says. "But I'd imagine there is some information in that book the Ghostriders don't want getting out. I was close. It makes sense."

"Then why did they choose me?" Stiles asks. "We were looking into the disappearances, but we were going no where because we couldn't remember anyone who was gone."

"I think you probably had the most potential to figure it out. Either that, or they thought taking you out would have the most detriment on Scott's pack."

Stiles balks. "Was that a compliment?"

"Again, don't dwell."

Stiles throws him a nasty look, but can't bring himself to bring any heat to it. Instead he sighs, leaning back to rest his head against the wall. "I don't like that we can't do anything. We can't control or change anything here. We just have to wait for someone else to figure it out. It's driving me crazy."

"That's because chess is your game. You like being in control and moving the pieces. They took the board away from you." Peter comments.

"I'm not a control freak."

"You are." Peter says with a grin. "I wouldn't worry about it, though. I didn't mean it negatively. While chess is your game, I never said it wasn't mine."

 **XXX**

Waiting for Derek felt like eternity. Scott assumes Derek shut off his phone after the tenth time he called in a two hour time period. Lydia said it was excessive. The Sheriff said he'd pistol whip Derek for shutting off his phone when he arrived. Scott secretly likes the Sheriff's plan better.

He stares at the three tubs in a row, a chill running down his spine. He remembers looking at Allison, the coldness icing his bones over as his heart raced, knowing there was a good chance that he wouldn't survive what they were about to do. And yet…

There is a gap there. He'd thought that it only was he and Allison, but seeing the tubs in a row of three alights something in him that seems to wake up something in his chest. He stares at the middle tub, wondering why he can't place the person who was in it. It's there on the tip of his tongue, escaping him as he tries to catch it.

"So let's run through this again," the Sheriff says. It's a little jarring to see the Sheriff outside his uniform, but it was entirely unnecessary for what they were about to do. Instead, he's in an undershirt and some old jeans, as if he rolled out of bed to do yard work. "I want to make sure I understand. Because I have this feeling that these tubs are a massive risk, but I don't know why. We had the Nogistune, but I can't quite remember how he came here."

Deaton sighs. "I'd imagine that has something to do with our missing friend – your missing son. But I can't think of any other solution that will help. When you submerge, you will enter a locked, subconscious state. If there's any chance for us to get Stiles back, we need to unlock it. Scott's Alpha claws won't work because he doesn't exist to Scott. But this eliminates a person and relies on your own minds. And when Derek gets here, you'll have a person who can guide you. Ideally."

"Ideally?" The Sheriff snaps. "That's not very reassuring."

"Well John, I'll admit I've never been in this position before." Deaton says coolly.

The Sheriff huffs like he wants to say more, but decides against it. Instead he turns to Scott. "Listen son, I don't want you to take the risk—"

"No." Scott states. "I'm going."

"Scott—"

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't convince me not to." Scott says. "There's something missing – something important. And I've got to do whatever I can, no matter the risk. I may not be able to remember him, but I have a feeling he'd do the same for me if the roles were reversed."

The Sheriff frowns, eyeing Scott like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Scott can see the gears turning in his head, but when his shoulders slump, Scott knows he's won. "Fine. But I will kill you if you die."

"Sounds fair."

There's a distant jingling in the distance and everyone looks up. "Thank god, I was about to considering putting him in jail for life." The Sheriff breathes, bolting for the door.

Scott follows, nearly melting with relief when he sees Derek stalk through. "Why the hell weren't you picking up your phone, Hale?" The Sheriff snaps as soon as he's in hearing distance.

"Because I was driving and it was getting excessive." Derek responds, undeterred by the Sheriff's anger. Instead, he turns to Scott. "So you really can't remember Stiles? Like, at all? None of you?"

Everyone looks at each other sheepishly. "No," Scott says. "We have no idea who that it."

Derek lets out a breath. "Fuck,"

"Yes, fuck indeed." The Sheriff states. "While I'd love to sit and chat, we need to discuss you doing something potentially life threatening instead."

"I beg your pardon?"

Scott claps Derek on the shoulder. In a humorless voice, he sighs, "Welcome back to Beacon Hills."

 **XXX**

"August 3rd."

Peter looks up at Stiles. "Huh?"

Stiles picks underneath his fingernails, unsure of where to look, but he definitely didn't want to look at Peter. "August 3rd." He repeats. "That's my mom's birthday."

Peter doesn't respond.

"I still think you have a better shot at this than I do." Stiles confesses. "You survived a fire, Derek ripping your throat out, Scott kicking your ass, Eichen House lockup… I don't think you're destructible." Stiles says with a haunted laugh. "And if I…" He winces, shutting his eyes. "If I become like them and I disappear, my mother's birthday is August 3rd."

"Okay."

 **XXX**

"When we did this last time, Stiles got possessed by the Nogitsune."

Derek's tone is clipped and he looks a little pale while staring at the tubs. Scott blinks a few times at his comment, unsure of what to do with it. Although, it makes sense. Something slots within himself like a puzzle piece as he stares at the middle tub. "We don't know what else to do." Scott says quietly.

Derek frowns. "I didn't say I wouldn't do it." He states. "But I'm saying that's what happened last time. There could be repercussions."

The Sheriff crosses his arms. "And you're willing to risk them for Stiles?"

"He'd do it for any of us. Begrudgingly and complaining the entire way," Derek says with a soft smile. "But he wouldn't hesitate. He'd just give you all a hard time about it."

The Sheriff looks at Derek in an odd way that makes Scott worried about where his head is at. He's sure he's conflicted about wanting to know more about his son, but also torn at not being the one who knows it. Right now it's all pooling in a way that looks like he wants to rip Derek's head off.

"Okay then," Deaton says. "Lydia, if you could be with Derek, since he remembers Stiles. Scott, why don't you take the middle. Sheriff on the left."

The three men stand in front of their tubs. Scott looks at the placid waters, littered with herbs and powder. He realizes he's trembling a bit as he wraps his hands around the edge of the tub, slowly lowering himself in.

The coldness takes his breath away as he does so, his body shaking even harder. He sits down, closing his eyes.

It's so close.

It's like he can feel someone here, but they're just out of his grasp. Scott opens his eyes to look at the Sheriff, who is clearly trying to control the shaking. His mother stands behind him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. The two share a moment that seems too intimate to watch, so Scott turns away to face Derek.

Only to find Derek staring at him.

"It's good you're doing this." Derek says.

Scott doesn't know what to say to that. Derek is barely trembling, but his jaw is tense.

"You're best friends, but you're really brothers." He continues. "I've watched you two for a couple years and I've never seen a friendship like the one you two have. You two would do anything for each other. I've seen a lot in my time, but nothing like the friendship you two have. That doesn't just go away. Not even with the supernatural is involved."

"But it did." Scott admits, hating himself a bit as he says it.

"No," Derek says. "Because I can see it in your eyes. You can feel him. You know you're missing someone. You can feel it."

Scott doesn't respond.

"I don't know if this will work," Derek says. "And I don't know if it will do more bad than good. But we've got to try."

Scott nods, setting his jaw. "We've got to try," he repeats to himself in a whisper. He looks up to see Deaton above him. "We're ready."

"Alright. Remember Lydia, you're all of their tethers."

Lydia looks stricken when he says that, but it's only for a moment. A second later, she stares back, determined. "Yes."

"You are their life line. If you begin to feel something bad happen, or if you want to scream, we're going to pull them out." Deaton instructs. "Remember, you need to make contact. Maybe remembering or looking at him will help. Then after, we will research Talia's recording. But if there's any indication that this will do harm to any of you, we will bring you out. Understand?"

Everyone nods.

Scott grips the tub. He tries not to picture Allison's face next to him. He tries not to think of the Nogitsune.

"More bad than good." He repeats to himself.

He's underwater.

 **XXX**

"Favorite movie?"

" _Psycho_."

"There's a fucking shock."

Peter takes a moment, but then laughs at Stiles. "You asked. Yours?"

"Duh. _Star Wars_. Because it's amazing. Oh shit!" Stiles exclaims.

"What?"

"If I get erased from reality, I'll never see the last two!"

Peter rolls his eyes. "Yes, because that's the real tragedy here."

"Oh shut up," Stiles grumbles. "Favorite color?"

"Red."

"Ew, because it's like blood?" Stiles grimaces.

Peter gives him an exasperated look. "It concerns me that blood is the first thing your mind goes to."

"Do you not remember what our lives have been like for the past three years?"

"Memory is the issue here."

Stiles can't help it, but he laughs. It surprises him and escapes before he can stop it. Before long, he's in hysterics, unable to control himself. "That's terrible."

"We're both pretty terrible people, so I feel like it's okay."

"That's fair," Stiles agrees. "Favorite family member?"

"Besides Sophia?" Peter asks. "I had an uncle that would always slip me porn magazines whenever he came to visit when I was a teenager."

"Nice."

"You?"

"Besides my mom and dad? Probably my grandmother back in Poland. She is the queen of sexual innuendo. Seriously. Bow to the master."

Peter's gaze flicks up to where Stiles carved his name. "That's Polish?"

Stiles nods. "Yeah. Actually, I was named after her husband. Apparently he was a total dick, but a good dick."

Stiles stops. Then he bursts out laughing again.

Peter sighs. "Why am I stuck here with a teenager?"

"Real rich coming from the guy who keeps murdering people."

"I was avenging my family's death."

"Cool motive. Still murder."

Peter opens his mouth to retort, but then he stops. Stiles looks at his curiously, following his line of sight to see that in the distance, three figures were approaching. Peter slowly gets up from the floor, looking over. "Oh my god," he breathes.

"Peter, what do your wolf eyes see?" Stiles jokes, but squints to try and make out the blurry figures moving forward.

"Not the time to bastardize _Lord of the Rings_ , Stiles." Peter says. "It's Scott. And Derek. And your dad."

 _"WHAT?!"_

Stiles screeches and then books it in the direction of the figure. It occurs to him that Peter could totally be fucking with him for entertainment, but there was something so shocked in his voice, he continues to run. As he does so, the figures take shape.

Holy shit, it's his _dad_.

If possible, he pushes himself faster.

He sprints until he slams up against something. Tumbling backwards, Stiles catches his balance to see the three sprinting just as quickly to reach him. Slamming his hands against the barrier, he feels tears welling in his eyes.

They're so _close_.

Dammit.

"Dad!" Stiles calls. "Scott! Derek!"

He slams his hand against the barrier again as if he'd somehow break it if he tried hard enough.

When the three reach him, they try something similar, but all to the same result. Stiles chokes back a sob, looking at his father. "Dad," he whispers.

Then his heart breaks.

His father looks at him, his eyes wide and tearing, but Stiles can tell. He can see it on his face.

He has no recollection of who he is.

"Scott," he tries but he gets the same emotional expression of someone who is trying _so hard_ , but has no idea who he is.

"Stiles," Derek says softly.

His eyes widen. "Dude, _you're_ the one who remembers me?"

Derek shrugs. "I've been out of Beacon Hills for a while. By the way, I totally recommend it."

Stiles chuckles weakly. "Well if I don't get erased permanently from existence, I'll take you up on it."

Derek doesn't respond, but his eyes are sad.

"Stiles?" Scott tries carefully.

"Scott," Stiles says, placing his hand against the barrier. "How'd you guys get here?"

"Tubs." The Sheriff says too quickly, his words clipped like he's trying not to cry.

"What? Are you insane?" Stiles cries. "That's so dangerous!"

"How else are we going to find you?" Scott replies.

The Sheriff hesitates. He steps up to where Stiles' hand is on the barrier and puts his own on there. Even though Stiles' hands are about the same size, it seem so big compared to him. His fingers are long and thin, while his fathers are strong. Stiles looks at it for a while. "Dad," he whispers, unable to stop the tear rolling down his cheek.

"Stiles," he responds, but it's broken. Because he says the name, but it's clear it doesn't hold meaning.

There's no weight.

"It's okay." Stiles says, his chin trembling. "It's okay that you can't remember me. It's not your fault."

"Son, don't—"

When he says 'son,' Stiles can't control the sob the escapes. He looks down, unable to look his father in the eye. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to pretend he can feel the warmth from his father's hand. He lies to himself, but it's almost real.

"I-It's okay," Stiles chokes. "It's okay dad. It's not your fault."

Stiles looks up, barely able to make his father out through the sheen of his tears. "It's okay."

"It's not."

Stiles isn't sure how to answer that. He feels the presence of someone walk up behind him and turns his head to see Peter carefully eyeing everyone. "Peter, Derek remembers me." Stiles says, wiping his eyes with his forearm and pulling his hand away from his father. "Derek, the guy who slammed my head into the wheel of my Jeep, remembers me."

Peter doesn't say anything. He's staring straight at Derek.

Stiles frowns and looks back. Then he puts his hand over his mouth.

Derek is looking at Peter the same way Scott and his father are looking at him. "Derek," Stiles starts carefully. "Derek, do you know who this is?"

Peter's eyes narrow at the question, but he doesn't take his gaze off his nephew.

Derek looks down.

"No."

 **XXX**

When he gets pulled out of the tub, his only instinct is how angry he is. The Sheriff glares at Deaton, who's pulled him out, watching as Scott and Derek emerge, choking on water as they do so.

But he doesn't yell. He doesn't scream.

Because all he can see is a face, covered in moles and the haunted eyes of his late wife.

He see her in the kid who desperately pleaded that it was okay and the Sheriff feels like he's lost her twice.

 **A/N:** **I was contemplating waiting to have the reunion to the next chapter, and basically went, "ah what the hell, have some angst." I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know your thoughts if you have a second.**

 **Much love!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys!**

 **Apologies for the delay! I know what I want to do, but sometimes it's hard to find time to just sit down and get words on paper after work. But I hope you enjoy where this is going and what I have planned. An even this chapter is a bit earlier that I originally anticipated, but I think it'll still be good.**

 **Also, I'm using this as an opportunity to wrap up a few holes that have always bothered me when I was watching the show that weren't answered. Hope you enjoy :)**

 **Let's get started, shall we?**

Chapter 5

 _When No One Remembers Your Name_

 _Scott looks at the teen in front of him, desperate wishing to himself to remember. Just remember. He tracks the kids moles and bright, mischievous eyes, wishing that something would stand out. That for something to fill the pieces of his mind._

 _But there's nothing._

 _"Scottie, it's funny because I always thought when we went to school, you'd end up getting other friends and forgetting me," Stiles says, his finger bent against the barrier, as if he kept his hand there just to remind himself he can't cross over. "You were all I had for the longest time." His voice is quiet. Sad._

 _Scott doesn't know what to say._

 _"There was one time, when the Alpha Pack was terrorizing the town and we thought Derek was dead. The Darach had poisoned you guys with wolfsbane and made you do things you'd never do."_

 _Scott remembers that. He remembers the Alpha Pack. He remembers the Darach. He even remembers thinking Derek was dead. But he cannot fathom how this person is recounting it like he was there when he can't place him. He turns to face Derek, but Derek is staring at Stiles with an expression on his face that Scott can't quite read. His jaw is clenched and his eyes are hard, but he's fixated on Stiles._

 _"She'd gotten inside your head. You were standing there, ready to light yourself on fire, ready to end it all," Stiles says it distantly. "And you said something that always stayed with me. You asked me if you remember what it was like before you were bitten. Before you came a werewolf." A tear slides down his cheek and his finger clench. "You told me that you and I were nothing. We weren't good at lacrosse or popular. We weren't important. We were no one." Stiles looks at the ground, his chin trembling. "I don't think you remember much of that night. I do though."_

 _Stiles takes a couple moments and then takes his hands off the barrier. He steps back a bit and looks Scott right in the eyes. "I didn't think we were no one, you know? Not until you said that. But the thing is Scott, I'm still not good at lacrosse. I'm still not popular. But I never felt like no one. Until you said something." He holds his hands close. "I always felt a little less important after that. If that's what you thought."_

 _Scott's chest feels heavy. He feels it seizing like an asthma attack, ready to put him on the floor._

 _"I'm not ready to be no one, Scott. We grew up together. We did everything together You're my best friend. You're my brother." Stiles pleads. He comes back to the barrier and places both hands on it. "You got me through when my mom died. I was there when your dad left. We had each other when we were no one. And that made us someone._

 _"Please remember me. Scott, please. Please remember me."_

Scott shoots straight up in bed covered in a thin sheen of sweat. He can feel his pulse racing and he takes a moment to even out his breath, Stiles' words haunting him.

When Stiles was talking to him from behind the barrier, Scott didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to think. He had hoped that when he saw Stiles, there would be a moment of clarity and he would just _know_. But to hear someone who considered Scott family plead for him to remember him was almost too much to bear.

Scott pulls off his sheets and tumbles out of bed, shakily making his way to the kitchen to get some water. He frowns when he sees the light on, carefully turning the corner. He's surprised when he sees Derek at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee next to him, pouring over the book he retrieved from his family's vault the moment they'd.

Scott walks up. "Dude, you drove straight here. Then we drowned you. Get some sleep."

Derek smiles wryly. "Can't," he mutters.

Scott heaves a sigh, placing himself in the seat next to Derek. "Yeah, me neither. I just keep seeing Stiles and it's awful." Scott points at Derek's mug. "I thought you said that didn't affect us."

"Doesn't. Just like the taste."

"See you're as talkative as you were when you left," Scott says.

"Sound like Stiles." Derek says.

Scott doesn't know what to say to that.

Derek looks up when Scott doesn't respond, and then sighs. Closing the book, Derek looks Scott in the eye. "You need to stop obsessing over the fact that you forgot him. It's counterproductive."

Scott makes a face that's a bit too honest. "Easy for you to say," he mumbles. "You didn't forget him."

"Scott, I've been out of the state for months now." Derek says. "It's not a yardstick to measure with. It's just going to eat you alive. And I can already feel my memories of Stiles getting fuzzy. Trust me, knowing that I'm the one person keeping him from disappearing altogether isn't a great feeling either."

"Did you figure out who that guy with Stiles was? Peter?" Scott asks.

Derek grows still and Scott almost regrets asking, even though it's a valid question. "Yes." Derek says. "It's my uncle, apparently."

"How'd you find out?"

"Cora." Derek says. "While in the vault I called her. She remembers him. Probably why he hasn't disappeared yet."

"Did you tell her to stay away?"

"After everything we've been through? I'd never tell anyone to visit Beacon Hills unless I really hated them."

Scott can't help it, he laughs. "Hey, quick question. You were looking at Stiles a weird way when he was talking about the Alpha Pack. Why?"

Derek looks at Scott. He doesn't say anything for a while like he's contemplating whether he should. Instead, he closes the book, running his hands down the cover. "I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"I didn't know that when you guys all thought I was dead, that Julia had tricked you all in trying to hurt yourselves. I didn't know." Derek shakes his head. "There are so many things I wish I could change. It's almost painful to deal with sometimes. But it reminds me why my mother always would say it was so important to have humans in the pack. Humans keep us grounded, sure. But they also save our lives."

Scott looks at his hands. "But we can't protect them." He says. "They're so…" his mind wanders to Allison, her hands slowly growing colder. "…fragile."

Derek's eyes look like they know exactly what he's talking about.

"Did you know that Stiles spent an entire summer researching the Alpha Pack for me?"

Scott gives him a look. "Yes, I know everything about Stiles." He deadpans.

Derek chuckles. "Oh, sorry. You spent the summer studying for the SATs and working because your grades were so bad. And Stiles offered to help. And he has a really weird way of finding things out. Probably because he's not opposed to doing illegal things to get them."

Scott looks stricken.

"You balance each other out," Derek laughs. "And you and I didn't have the best relationship and he made me promise never to tell you. He didn't want you to think that he was going behind your back and you'd just broken up with Allison, so he didn't want to make you more upset. So he spent months diving into research and helping me. And I never forgot that. Stiles and I didn't always get along. In fact, we rarely got along. But I trusted him. And I'm fairly certain he trusted me."

Derek clenches his fist. "We're going to get him back. We just have to."

 **XXX**

Stiles is far past the point of caring whether Peter sees him with tears dripping down his cheeks. He figures that Peter is living in his own world anyway with the realization that Derek doesn't remember him. So he doesn't try and wipe his tears away.

Instead, he sits.

He thinks of his father. Scott. Lydia. Derek. He thinks of Melissa and Kira, Allison, Liam, and Malia. He clenches his fist with how unfair it all is. How much he wishes he could be there with them.

He thinks of how scared he is.

He always told himself that there was always something. Because there always was. Whether it was an Alpha Pack, the Nogitsune, the Dead Pool, or the Dread Doctors, there was always something.

Now?

There isn't something.

Stiles trips out over this for a little while, ignoring the shaking of his hands as he starts to spiral. A while later, someone slides down the wall next to him, their shoulder brushing against his enough to snap him out of the potential panic attack he was slowly working himself into. Stiles doesn't look at Peter and Peter doesn't look at him.

"So this is it," Peter says softly.

"Yeah."

Peter lets out a humorless laugh. "You know, I'm not all for the endless hope that is Scott McCall, but I genuinely thought there may be a way out of this."

"Me too."

"They don't remember us. They genuinely don't remember us," Peter marvels.

Stiles swallows. "I don't think I truly believed that could happen until they got here." He admits. "I mean, I know we're here in this weird limbo place and people are literally disappearing before our eyes. But they forgot us."

Peter growls a little, but there's no real heat. Just resignation.

"You know," Stiles chuckles. "I really hated you like 99% of the time. Like wanted you dead, hate."

"I'm fairly certain it was 100% for me."

"Asshole," Stiles snorts. "But I don't want to disappear. And I don't want you to either."

Peter turns his head. "Yeah?"

They sit there for a while, listening to the screams.

"I still can't believe you lit me on fire." Peter spits.

Stiles laughs. "You tried to turn me in a parking lot."

"You threatened to kill me every time we were in a room together."

"Oh you do not want to play this game with me," Stiles says. "Because I could go on. For like a fucking year. You turned Scott without his permission, you almost murdered Lydia, you almost killed me at the hospital, you tried to kill Scott several times—"

"Semantics."

Stiles huffs. "Semantics my ass. You are a dick." Stiles smiles, though. "But, even though I really hated you – like, legit hated you – I just… I'm glad someone's here. I always thought that you and I kinda understood each other, you know? You get what Scott never did – what Derek never did."

Peter looks over. "I know."

"And while I don't trust you and I fully expect that if we get out, in a year you'll be trying to murder us all in some vain attempt to steal Scott's alpha powers, I just hope we both get out. And I'm sorry Derek didn't remember you."

Peter doesn't respond.

"Because my own father doesn't recognize me and it hurts, you know. I'm sorry. And I'm sorry for everything that happened to your family."

Peter looks at his hands, which are beginning to turn into claws like he can't quite control what's going on. "And I'm sorry for yours."

Stiles frowns, confused.

"Your family may be small, but it's gone too. And for what it's worth, I don't want you to disappear either."

 **XXX**

Lydia knows something's off when she opens the door of the school.

Then she realizes she's not wearing shoes.

Blinking, Lydia looks down at her feet. There's red staining the bottom of them and she discovers that she walked here.

Beacon Hills High School.

The logical part of her brain is screaming at her. It's telling her that nothing good happens in the halls of the school. Especially at night.

 _"You'll forget me."_

The words are loud and resonating within her head to the point where she wants to flinch, but instead she watches as her hand reaches out to the door handle on its own accord. It's shaking. The tips of her fingers are blue.

 _"You'll forget me."_

The voice says again.

She wants to scream. She wants to tell the voice she won't forget, there's something deep within herself that is convinced she won't forget, but she doesn't know who she's talking to.

The door opens. Lydia wonders if they ever lock the school, especially considering it's a breeding ground for unexplained murder. She pushes the handle of the front door open, wincing as she looks inside.

 _"Please don't forget me."_

"Hello?" She calls, bringing her phone out of her pocket. At least her banshee state wasn't an idiot. She turns on the flashlight, bringing it up to her shoulders as she scans the area.

 _"I won't."_

Lydia walks down the hallway, following the voices.

 _"You will."_

They grow louder as she does so, so she picks up the pace to a light jog. There's such a finality to the voice. Her heart starts quickening as she sprint.

She pushes the doors of the library open, the metal slamming against the wall and creating a loud ruckus in the school. She hears the pipes groan, but she tries not to pay attention. The voices are louder. They're pleading.

There's a lot of screaming now. Screaming she doesn't understand. It sounds like the people are on fire and they are suffocating.

 _"Tell me your name! I'll remember you! Tell me your name!"_

Lydia searches around the library, unsure of what she's looking for. The voices are coming from a far row of books. She sprints over, looking for the source, but no one is there.

 _"Tell me your name!"_

Lydia chest is seizing. She feels something fill up in a painful way, like something is clawing at her throat. "No," she whispers.

 _"I don't know."_

Lydia stumbles backwards, wincing when her shoulders hit the rows of books behind her. Something shifts and she turns around. The thrumming in her ears grows louder until it's a dull roar and then…

Silence.

Lydia peeks closer to the book shelf. She sees Scott's initials next to Kira's. She sees Scott's scrawl of Allison's that always make her chest ache a little and Malia's. She turns her attention a little over.

 _LM + MS_

 _Mets rule!_

"Stiles," she whispers, running her hands over the permanent marker.

He made this. He made this and felt the need to write his name next to hers.

But the urge to scream doesn't go away. It makes her head hurt, trying not to.

But she has to. Something in her chest is going to burst.

Whirling around, she catches sight of something a few rows down.

A person.

Their eyes are dead and there is an arrow in between their eyes, blood dripping past their lashes.

Lydia screams.

 **XXX**

When it starts, Stiles doesn't quite register what's happening.

There are moments in life that don't play in real time. There are moments that go agonizingly slow and others that you desperately wish you could hold onto.

But this.

This was a moment in time that no longer made sense. Stiles watches it happen without knowing what he's watching.

It starts with a choke.

Peter's pacing across the room, running his hand through his hair in a way that Stiles realizes is a nervous tick of his. His face never belies any sense of concern, but his hands? His hands are an entirely different story.

Peter stops pacing.

And he chokes.

The yell that bursts through his lips is piercing and Stiles looks up just as the man crashes to the ground. He starts to rip at his head like something is eating him from the inside, his hands quaking as he writhes on the ground.

Then the world snaps back into place.

Stiles runs over to him, grabbing his head to stabilize it. "Peter!" Stiles yells. "Peter, listen to me! Your name is Peter Hale!"

Peter's eyes snap open and they're a blazing blue. The flicker in the light, but there is no sense of recognition. His arms are twitching and salvia dribbles down his mouth as he convulses.

"Your name is Peter Hale!" Stiles screams. "Your nephew is Derek Hale and your niece is Cora! You killed Laura and your entire family burned in a fire. Your d-daughter—"

Stiles trips over the words. "Peter, don't you dare make me leave flowers on your daughter's grave. Don't you fucking dare!"

Peter's eyes snap to some sort of recognition and it's nothing but horror. It's a haunted face that stamps itself on Stiles' memory and he knows it's going to be with him for the rest of his life.

"You asshole!" He screams, gripping his shoulders tightly. "You fucking asshole, don't leave me here in this hellhole. Think about someone else for once in your life!"

Peter's mouth curls up into a smile, blood tinting his lips. He opens his mouth to speak, but there are no words. Just a gargling. His skin's paling and flaking off, leaving a dust on Stiles' hands. "No! _NO!"_

There's a light in people's eyes when they're alive. Something that shines beneath them.

When it goes out, it's a terrible thing.

Stiles can tell anyone the moment when Peter Hale no longer existed. When the light was gone.

Peter's face grows slack and his eyes grown dim. For a moment, his body twitches and fights. And then…

It gives up.

His skin starts to turn to ash, his blood disappearing from the ground.

"You asshole!" Stiles screams, his words echoing in the room. No one looks up. "You fucking asshole! Why would you do that? Why would you leave me here?"

The 'alone' is unsaid.

But it is heard.

 **A/N: AAAAAAAND I wanted to come full circle with Peter and Stiles! And having there be a conclusion to Peter's story, since there never really seems to be one on the show.**

 **Please leave a note if you have a moment!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi everyone,**

 **I hope you're all doing well! I know I wasn't the nicest last time to Peter, but here was the thought process: Peter has basically been given his life back twice. I took it as a three strikes, you're out. Plus, I wanted him in a place where he would really think about what he'd done and focus more on the family he had before the fire than everything he'd done since.**

 **And since I always imagined he and Stiles kinda got each other on a weird level, I thought the two of them could bond before he moved on. In my mind, Peter isn't quite as upset about it as Stiles is from being alone.**

 **Let's move on then!**

Chapter 6

 _Forgotten and Still Lost_

The Sheriff runs his hand down his face, trying to ignore the voice in the back of his head that reminded him how many times he was brought to the local high school for a murder. "That's it," he grumbles to Parrish, who finished taking Lydia's statement. She walked in a trance over to Scott who looped an arm around her, rubbing her arms as he whispers things into her ear. "I think we should just burn this whole city to the ground and start over." The Sheriff grumbles when he walks up to Parrish.

Parrish snorts. "Can't say that I argue with that. It's ridiculous the crime rate in this city. Why did you want to be the Sheriff again?"

"I'll admit the job description didn't include werewolves. Or hellhounds for that matter." He says with the lift of an eyebrow.

Parrish looks sheepish, but flips open his notebook. "On the record, it is a sixteen-year-old female. Junior at Beacon Hills. Kaitlin Priestly."

The Sheriff looks curiously back at him. "And off the record?"

Parrish leans in. "Lydia had one of her feelings again. She thinks she felt Stiles. She thinks she can hear him."

The Sheriff's eyes widen. "What does that mean? She usually gets that feeling when someone is about to die, right."

Parrish doesn't respond right away, which angers the Sheriff a bit. He wants to shake his deputy, but refrains, waiting for an answer. "When," Parrish finally says.

"Excuse me?"

"When someone is about to die."

The anger bursts forth before the Sheriff can stop it, and he grabs Parrish by the collar and throws him up against a wall. "Enough, Parrish!" He snaps.

The haze of red that he sees slowly dissipates and the Sheriff lets go, his hands shaking. "I-I'm sorry," he says shakily, unable to look at the stricken Parrish before him. "I don't know what came over me."

"We'll figure it out, sir." Parrish says with an easy smile, no fear or frustration in his eyes. "We'll figure it out, I promise."

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

A voice says behind them, startling the two men. The Sheriff whirls around at the familiar voice, his eyes widening. Chris Argent steps forward, flashing a badge at one of the deputies, who waves him in. "Where in the holy hell did you get that?" The Sheriff says, eyeing something that looks an awful lot like an FBI badge.

"Don't worry about it," Chris says with a sly grin.

"As an enforcer of the actual law, I'd say it's in my job description to worry about." The Sheriff groans. "You realize it's a felony to impersonate an FBI agent, right?"

"Who said I was impersonating?" Chris responds. "Let's just say I've been keeping busy since I saw you gentlemen last. And it seems like you have been too. More murders?"

The Sheriff isn't impressed. "You know better than anyone that this place is a hell pit for supernatural crime."

"But I never expected Ghostriders."

The Sheriff blinks. "You know about them?"

"Why don't you come to my house? Tell Derek to bring his mother's book and I'll get you gentlemen equipped with some weapons that might actually keep you all alive?"

The Sheriff sighs. "This is about to get a lot worse, isn't it?"

"Get worse?" Chris laughs. "John, it's been worse for a while. It's about to get cataclysmic."

 **XXX**

He isn't there.

Stiles looks at the ground, trying to rationalize what he's seeing, but he isn't there. Peter Hale isn't there. He waits for the moment. He waits for the moment when his mind erases the man from his memory, but it doesn't happen. He blinks, splaying his fingers on the ground. "No," he whispers. He repeats this mantra over and over again as if somehow it will change what happened.

Spoiler: it doesn't.

"It will never go away."

Stiles whips his head up to see someone in the corner of the room eyeing him wearily. He manages to hoist himself up from the spot where Peter Hale once sat, standing to turn to the voice. "Excuse me?" He asks the woman.

She looks like she's made of glass. Timeless, but old. There's something very other worldly about her. Her eyes are far apart and she has her dark hair tied in a knot at the base of her neck. Her clothes look like something out of a Victorian romance novel and her posture's far too straight for her to be from this decade.

"You won't forget him. Not here, at least." She says, her gaze eerie. "You are already forgotten, so you cannot create more."

Stiles stands, wipes his eyes, and scowls. "Well that was super horrifying and vague. Who are you?"

She smiles, but it looks like it might break her face. "Why Stiles, my name is Evangeline."

Stiles takes a step back cautiously at her casual use of his name.

"And I am the first of the Forgotten."

 **XXX**

"The Ghostriders were the first of their kind." Chris says, pulling out a few books from a chest he dramatically set in front of everyone. Scott eyes Derek, who is rolling his eyes, so he knows it's over the top. "They were originally protectors of the weak. During the Crusades, the people were the ones who paid the highest price. And it caused devastation among the land. Millions of people died with no record of their names and lineage. And so there was a group of people who made it their mission to try and write down the lives and the names of those lost, so they wouldn't be forgotten forever."

Derek's interest is caught, because he sits up straight. "Like that theory that you don't move on to the afterlife until the last person to know your name dies?"

Chris nods. "Something like that. They weren't doing it for any religious reasons – the clashing of religions is what they were fighting against – but because they wanted people to be remembered. So they made lists. They did research. They were the backbone of knowledge of their time. And since they searched for the names of the dead, they were christened 'The Ghostriders.'

"Not long after, they started dabbling in… alternative methods to gain information. There was only so much they could do and the body count increased. So they started calling to the dark arts in order to make sure no name was left forgotten."

Scott frowns. "They don't sound too bad."

"Isn't that how every horror story starts, though?" Chris says thoughtfully. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

 **XXX**

"They were being consumed," Evangeline says when Stiles sits next to her, trying to stop the parade of questions that wanted to spill out of his mouth. "Consumed by the hatred for those who caused us so much pain. It manifested itself in power when they started practicing dark magic."

"What was the dark magic for?" Stiles asks.

Evangeline puts her lips in a thin line. "Initially simply to gain names of people they didn't know. A few blood spells. Some fire. On the grand scale of things, it was minimal. I thought they knew what they were doing. I thought they wanted to help and this was a way for them to do so."

"So what happened?"

"As you might assume, name retrieval isn't what dark magic is primarily used for. It's for far more destructive things. As they continued to research and the bodies grew, they decided it was time for them to no longer play the passive body counts. They wanted to go on the offensive and stop the killing."

Stiles frowns, looking at all the despondent bodies in the room. The screams still echo. It seems like a far cry from wanting to save lives. "The idea doesn't sound so bad."

She nods. "I thought so too. So I turned a blind eye when their research encouraged them to do darker deeds. I would tell myself it was for the greater good. If a few lives had to parish to save the rest, it was for the best."

"I believe that," Stiles says quietly.

"To be honest, dear child? I don't know what to believe anymore."

 **XXX**

"Once the Ghostriders delved into darker spells, the Crusades took a turn for the violent." Chris says. "There isn't much record for what happened, but people often say God smited the world for the violence it inflicted on His land. But for those with little knowledge of the Ghostriders, they know what happened."

Lydia's eyes grew wide. "What did they do?"

"They destroyed _everything._ "

 **XXX**

"When a war of religion grows to a war of magic, the casualties mount." Evangeline says quietly. "I could no longer turn a blind eye. While I remained with the group, it was to make sure their work didn't spill over and take the innocent. I didn't want them to become the horror that they feared. But of course, suddenly there was talk of necessary sacrifice. Of how if they died for their cause, it would be justified. And I knew I had to figure out a way to stop it."

 **XXX**

 _Evangeline looks around her and the world is burning. It's on fire and the stench of burning flesh stings her nose and she wants to gag. Instead, she grips the cloth closer to her face, peering around. "Ain!" She cries, noting the source of the fire. "Ain, stop! You cannot save them!"_

 _She runs to where the fire is blazing brightest. Ain sits in the middle, his eyes burning red in a way that sent fear up her spine. "Please, you can't solve this with more destruction!" She cried, running up to him. "Please!"_

 _"You don't understand the devastation these wars have caused," Ain grumbles through gritted teeth. It sound only part-human. The rest filled with anger and pain. "They deserve to be erased. They deserve to be forgotten, just as they forgot their people."_

 _As he speaks, the fire grows. It consumes all the bodies around them, reducing them to nothing more than ash. "Ain, stop it, please!" Evangeline screams, the heat burning her own skin._

 _She puts her hands in the satchel at her side, pulling out a book. With tears in her eyes, she starts to chant. Ain stops – as does the rest of their group – their magic dwindling._

 _"Evangeline!" Ain exclaims, his eyes furious. "What are you doing!"_

 _She doesn't let it deter her. She continues to chant. Her gaze locks on Ain and she knows he knows what she's trying to do. With tears, she grabs her dagger at her side and swipes it across her palm. "Enough! You are becoming what you loathe!" She exclaims, letting the blood seep into the floor. "With this blood, I present to the earth a sacrifice. A sacrifice to right the wrongs that took place and bring peace back into the land. Take what was stolen and return the world to what it was."_

 _"Evangeline, no!" Ain cries. "Stop her!"_

 _But before they can advance, her spell did its trick. As the men raised their hands up, the fires burning around them quieted to nothing and the earth settled into its usual chaos._

 _She lifts her head._

 _"You cannot destroy with what you do not have."_

 **XXX**

"I took away their powers of destruction that day. The only magic they could do was that which gave life. It stripped them of their cause. But alas," she sighs, looking at the room of people. "They found another way to destroy the human race. To punish it for its evil. Just as they tried to keep everyone from being forgotten in the beginning, they wanted everyone to be lost in the world. To spite all their hard work they did, they learned how to erase people. How to destroy without destruction."

Stiles looks at his hands because he doesn't know what else to do.

"I was the first person they erased. I knew they were going to get revenge, so it was simply a matter of time. So I started a contingency plan for when they found me. Which, as you can tell, has worked up until this moment."

 **XXX**

"What you have in your hands, Derek, is Evangeline D'Marque's written account of the Ghostriders. She was a part of their group, I believe. I've heard she had an account of their travels, but I didn't know your mother was the one who ended up with her writing."

Derek opens the book. "It's in Archaic Latin."

Lydia perks up. "You're speaking my language, Derek Hale."

 **XXX**

"They weren't as powerful as they are now when they erased me." Evangeline says. "They couldn't erase from text or script. So as long as that book holds my name, I cannot be forgotten."

Stiles frowns. "They are able to erase people from books?"

"Dear child, I think you know the answer to that question."

Stiles bristles at being called a child again, but lets it go. "What happens if you are forgotten."

"Saving myself isn't the only thing that I did," Evangeline smiles. "Why do you think people aren't forgotten instantly and arrive here?"

Stiles looks around with wide eyes. "Wait…"

Her grin broadens. "I created it to save those to be forgotten. But if I am forgotten, so will every single person in this room." She grabs Stiles hands and draws him close. He winces at the touch and being forced into her space, but tries to hide it. "I sense something with you."

"You _sense_ something with me?" Stiles repeats, leaning backwards

She leans closer to him. "Have you ever heard of something called a Spark?"

 **A/N: BUM BUM BUM. I know that was a long wait for backstory, but I hope you like it! It's about to pick up pace next chapter – I don't think this'll be as long as my other novel-length ones, but I hope to finish before the show premieres!**

 **Please leave a note if you have the time! It really makes me warm and happy. :)**


End file.
